


Inviolate

by arrow (esteefee)



Category: due South
Genre: Angst, April Showers Challenge, Established Relationship, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-20
Updated: 2008-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser really shouldn't read Shelley. It puts him in a mood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inviolate

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by [](http://nos4a2no9.livejournal.com/profile)[**nos4a2no9**](http://nos4a2no9.livejournal.com/) , which is a very inadequate  
> means of saying she kicked my ass in the pleasantest way possible,  
> came up with brilliant ideas and solutions, and somehow did it all  
> in between workouts, puck-baking, and grading freshman papers.

Fraser: "There's something to be said for young love."

Ray: "Yeah, it sucks."

                                    — _Say Amen_  





Sometimes—when Ray claps an arm around his shoulder, or gives him his usual half-smile and a wink—sometimes, Fraser thinks to himself quietly, _he's mine._ Not in the sense that Ray is his possession, but in the sense Fraser is free to approach him, he is _permitted_ —Ray is his to be with.

It's patently untrue, of course. Still, Fraser lets himself imagine it, despite the harsh reality, because it is, after all, inside his own mind, the only inviolate space. What a man dreams is known truly only to himself.

And so, when Ray comes to him late at night, as he sometimes does, usually a beer or two for the worse, Fraser lets him in, walks silently back to his office and locks the door behind them.

Ray wants the lights off. Fraser's night vision is such that he regrets it only for what it signifies. He can still see the writhing of Ray's slim form, the flex of his arms and chest within his thin T-shirt, the contortion of his features as he climaxes. And, oh, the sweet sounds he makes. Nothing is hidden from Fraser, except Ray's thoughts on the matter. _Why_ he comes to him.

Why he then leaves.

///

It started one night after Ray heroically saved a woman from being executed. Ray didn't see it that way, but Fraser did. He saw Ray question the foundation of his life—the very meaning of being a police officer. He saw Ray force himself to consider his own error and misplaced trust in his superior. He saw Ray's sacrifice, and his willingness to put his career and his own life at risk to make things right.

Afterward, Ray accompanied the freed woman to her home. When he came back out, he slumped in his car seat as if his strings had been cut. And then he began to cry.

Fraser didn't know what to do. The truth was he'd never had any great facility at dealing with strong emotions, his own or those of others. He settled for awkwardly gripping the back of Ray's neck in silent support.

Ray's tears were nearly silent, and afterward he drew in a ragged breath and rubbed briskly at his face as if to erase it all. In the silence of the car, the sound of Ray's palms rubbing over his bristled cheeks was quite loud. Fraser drew back his hand and waited.

"Come home with me?" Ray said finally, and Fraser nodded.

At the apartment, Ray didn't turn on the television. He didn't order pizza or talk a mile a minute about whatever engaged his interest. Instead, he slouched on the sofa with one leg slung carelessly over the arm and regarded Fraser silently.

Uncomfortable under the scrutiny, Fraser fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. The cream sweater had seen better days, but he couldn't seem to get rid of it. He'd have to mend it again.

"We're buddies, right?"

"Right you are, Ray," Fraser responded automatically.

"Right," Ray muttered, scrubbing his forehead.

"Ray—?"

"Shut up, Fraser."

Fraser raised his eyebrows. "As you wish."

Ray moved from his slouch suddenly and drew closer, the cushion tilting under his weight. "That ain't shutting up, Fraser."

"Mmm." With an effort, Fraser said nothing more, in spite of the fact Ray now had his hand on the back of Fraser's neck. Just as in the car, but with their positions reversed.

And this was no gesture of comfort. Ray's hand wasn't kneading so much as caressing him, if Fraser were to put too fine a point on it. And Ray's fingers had drifted upward, ruffling through his short hairs, causing something to tingle dangerously down Fraser's spine.

Fraser wanted to ask what Ray was doing, but he knew very well, he _did_ , and he'd been told not to speak. So, he didn't, not even when he suddenly felt Ray's lips on the side of his jaw.

He did gasp, though.

Then Ray's mouth was at Fraser's ear and whispering there, "You know what buddies can do for each other, Frase?"

Fraser nodded without thinking, although in truth he had no real idea, and then he had no room for thought, because Ray's hands were on him, sliding under his sweater, touching him where he hadn't been touched in so long. And Ray was taking his hand, drawing it down to the stiffening heat at Ray's groin. And Ray's mouth, _dear God_ —after years of seeing Ray put things in his mouth (toothpicks, lollypops, sticks of gum) Fraser shouldn't have been surprised to find Ray's tongue and lips as agile and compelling and downright lasciviously capable as they were.

And later, when Ray was sprawled over the edge of the bed, pants around his knees, shirt still on, and he said, "All right, c'mon, fuck me," Fraser opened his own jeans, fumbled and slipped, and then gave Ray what he asked for, until Ray shuddered and thrust back and came around him.

So, that was how it started, but it hasn't changed anything that Fraser can determine, because during the daylight hours they are much the same as they always were—partners, friends.

And sometimes Ray comes to him, and touches him. Only ever at the Consulate, and only in the dark, but before he leaves again there is touching, and a raw tenderness hidden beneath the rough caresses, as if Ray can make love no other way, even when he isn't with whomever he truly wishes to be. Fraser steals those moments, those touches, and in the privacy of his own mind re-labels them his own.

And if Fraser lets himself thinks selfishly, wistfully, _he is mine_ —well, it's a harmless piece of self-deception, isn't it?

///

The weather is turning, and the seat of the GTO is almost slick with cold under Fraser's jeans. He should have worn the wool, although this is a stake out, so perhaps a uniform wouldn't be precisely apropos.

Ray is restless tonight, but not talking. Ever since they cracked the Denny Scarpa case he's been on edge. Fraser knows he was uncommunicative during that case; perhaps led Ray and the others to believe he was being taken in by her charms. All for the good of the hunt, of course, but Ray doesn't appear to have forgiven him.

Ray fiddles with the radio, which is turned so low it's little more than background noise, but occasional lyrics become startlingly clear— _"Tainted love, touch me baby, tainted love—"_

 __Ray makes a disgusted sound and snaps it off, then reaches for the magazine on the seat beside him. Fraser had leafed through it earlier, both appalled and fascinated by the content. Golden-skinned, naked women with unnaturally large endowments. Crude and tasteless cartoons. Desperate letters of a fantastical nature.

As always, when confronted by this kind of material, Fraser can see nothing in the images of lush, exposed genitalia to excite him. The women are nameless, their expressions almost pained. He feels vaguely ashamed for his gender even perusing the thing.

Ray, however, seems quite satisfied. Interestingly enough, this is the first time he's brought along this sort of reading material. In fact, in times past when Huey or Dewey offered trades when changing shifts, Ray had turned them down in favor of reading _The Ring_ or _Sports Illustrated._ Of course, Fraser is equally disenchanted with _Sports Illustrated_ since their coverage of curling events is sadly lacking.

Tonight, though, Ray seems absorbed in his men's magazine. He does flick his eyes over on occasion—Fraser can feel the weight of his gaze, momentary and oddly condemning, before it once again returns to his reading. There is something almost provocative in Ray's posture, in his absorption, but Fraser can't define what is causing that impression.

"Yow, that Pamela Anderson is some kinda hot," Ray says.

"Er, who—?"

Ray waves the front of the magazine at him irritably, and Fraser obediently looks. The woman in question is blonde, exceedingly top-heavy and slim-hipped.

"She appears quite...healthy."

It's the best he can do in terms of compliments, but Ray snorts indelicately. "It's all that jogging on the beach," he says, and when Fraser raises an eyebrow, "Shit. _Baywatch_ , Fraser? Lifeguards in red swimsuits?"

"Sorry, I'm not familiar—"

"Yeah, of course you're not." Ray sounds exasperated. It is, Fraser supposes, only the usual discontinuity between their cultural experiences, something that causes no little irritation between them.

"A television show, I assume?"

Ray seems almost disproportionately annoyed. "Yeah, Fraser, TV. You know, the little shiny box that, if you flip the channels on occasion, gives up more than nature shows and curling and shit." He switches gears again. "Seriously, you don't think she's hot? She's Canadian you know."

"I suppose she's attractive enough."

"Not enough for you, though." Ray turns in his seat, his knee jiggling with agitation. "So what does it for a Mountie, then?" His eyes narrow and he looks away. "What kind of girl?"

Fraser's back stiffens. "I like women, not girls, Ray."

"Sure. The sturdy ones. Like that bounty hunter chick." Ray's hostility is now undisguised. "Only, seems like you only like 'em if they're liars and thieves."

Fraser has to look away. He wishes, to be truthful, he could get out of the car and just walk away, but with their luck Mr. Delgado would choose that moment to leave the office they've been staking out for three days.

"Aren't you gonna answer me?"

"I'm not sure there's anything to say." Yes, he always seems to be attracted to the wrong type of woman, but apparently Ray doesn't recognize the one quality, beyond dishonesty, that Denny, Janet, and even Victoria shared—they were all determined enough.

It is the same quality he so admires in Ray. Because Ray is the most determined of all. He doesn't ask. He never has. He doesn't need to. _  
_  
Ray _knows_ he doesn't need to.

"Fraser, goddammit—"

"Why are we discussing this?" Fraser speaks quietly to hide the tremor in his voice. More firmly, he says, "Have you already run out of fascinating reading material?"

"Ooh. I like it when you get snappy on me, Red."

To respond would play right into Ray's hands, so Fraser just stares out the front window. The scene is unchanging. No felons, not even a pickpocket or a litterbug in sight. How unfortunate.

It's been a month since Ray walked into the Consulate to find Denny in mid-attempt to seduce Fraser. It's been a little over a month since Ray paid one of his unscheduled visits. Yet Fraser doesn't believe for a moment there is any real connection between those two pieces of data. Ray is simply angry with him for playing his cards so close to his chest.

This is Fraser's punishment, or perhaps the lack of late night visits might simply mean Ray hasn't run into Stella recently. Early on, Fraser identified a correlation there, but he still finds himself incapable of turning Ray away.

Ray mutters something low in his throat.

"Beg pardon?"

"Nothing." The snap of Ray's gum is followed closely by the crackle of the radio. It's Lieutenant Welsh, telling them to 'hang it up' for the evening.

"Another wasted effort, I'm afraid."

Ray tosses his magazine into the back seat and starts up the engine.

"Come on. There's hockey tonight. Let's go to your place."

As always, he doesn't wait for Fraser's assent.

///

It starts with a careless comment about the Blackhawks and leads to what can only be deemed an argument, although the one-upmanship still contains a note of humor that lulls Fraser into a false sense of security.

False, because right in the middle of Fraser making a point about wings who obviously need to sharpen their skates, Ray leans over and closes Fraser's mouth with a kiss.

Fraser is shocked into immobility, simply because there is no _reason_ for this, there were none of the usual cues, and because he almost wants to refuse. Almost. Which is surprising enough that he can't, for a moment, move.

"C'mon," Ray says, sounding a little amused. "I know you remember how to do this, Frase."

Fraser is stung into responding, but not with words. Still, even as he dips his tongue between Ray's lips, something cold and hard remains lodged in the pit of his stomach.

Later, much later, after Ray has finished kissing him, rolled him to his back on the pink and white striped Consulate sofa, and made them both climax with nothing more than the pressure of his lean, jean-clad hips, Fraser presses his face into Ray's neck. Just for a moment, but apparently a moment is too much.

Ray struggles to his feet. The cold in Fraser's gut blooms like an ice crystal as Ray backs away from him with his eloquent hands pleading, though his voice is harsh and almost empty.

"I guess I better go, huh?"

Fraser's throat closes around a pathetic plea.

Ray turns his back. And though there is nothing Fraser wants more than to leap to his feet and grab Ray's shoulders, _force_ him to speak, to explain, he does not. Because he knows the measure of his own insanity in this area. He will not return there. Maybe that's why Ray always leaves, although Ray couldn't possibly have the same fear, because Ray had Stella, and even if it ended, it lasted for many years—a normal, loving relationship between husband and wife.

Stella isn't, after all, a confessed murderer.

Almost as if he senses Fraser's thoughts, Diefenbaker rises to shake himself, his tags chiming. Ray has disappeared down the hallway.

So. Just more of the emptiness, hardly better than being alone and without touch. But, oh, Fraser wants more. He _yearns_.

Ray will go home and take a shower, wash the evidence away, soap his smooth, pale body. The creamy skin of his hairless chest, silk over wiry muscle—

Fraser adjusts himself in his damp pants and adjourns to his office. He closes the door softly behind him, as if someone were listening.

///

They continue at their work—their good work. Fraser is proud, each day, of what they accomplish together.

And Ray vacillates between his usual, mocking good humor and something more caustic—there's a thin edge to his sarcasm that cuts Fraser sometimes, although he recognizes it is just Ray being snippy. Fraser snaps at him in response, and after work berates himself for his lack of patience. Because it almost seems as if Ray is testing him somehow, and he feels he is failing.

They rescue a couple of young lovers from a tangle of religious fervor and greed. Their story is so clean, so implausibly happy, that Fraser is surprised to find himself feeling a resurgence of hope—that love is possible, even between completely disparate types of people.

He is forced to revise his opinion when ASA Kowalski stops by the station, and Ray goes into sheepish, pleading mode, his quicksilver motion stilling unnaturally as if he were suddenly afraid any move could be the wrong one.

"C'mon, Stel, I'm talking drinks and a little dinner while we go over this stuff. I'm tired of this place." Ray gives her a winning look, and darts a glance at Fraser. "Fraser'll come with, won't you, buddy?"

Fraser can imagine no situation fraught with more troubling emotions than watching Ray moon over a woman who doesn't deserve his ardor, but he nods his head at hearing the pleading tone.

Stella seems to relax suddenly. "All right, Ray. Enrico's?" Her voice is somewhat challenging.

Ray makes a face. "Sounds good. Meet you there." He taps the edge of the case folder on his desk and drops it onto the stack.

"What about Dief, Ray?" Seeing an opening, Fraser says, "Why don't I walk him home and meet you two later for drinks?"

Ray's eyes shift. "Nah, the wolf looks tired. Aren't you, Dief?"

The lazy wolf whuffles his agreement with an extremely pitiful look.

Fraser frowns at him. "Very well, then. Shall we?" He is eager to go; the sooner this farce begins, the sooner it will end.

Ray is silent as he drives them back to the Consulate. Fraser opens the passenger door and before he gets out asks diffidently, "Should I change into something else?" He has but one suit, and perhaps it won't be adequately stylish for the venue, but at the least he will make the effort if Ray wishes it.

Ray's smile is somewhat ironic. "Naw. There's nobody you gotta impress, Frase."

This doesn't, of course, answer Fraser's question, but he nods and lets Dief out. He makes a quick run to the kitchen to fill Dief's bowls, and Dief noses into them.

Fraser dallies a moment, unwilling to leave. He is home. He should simply bow out, except Ray seemed particularly to want him to come.

Fraser can't imagine why.

///

Enrico's is filled past the doorway with well-dressed executives of both sexes. Fraser is relieved seeing the crowd. Obviously, they will have to go somewhere else, perhaps somewhere where a man in a red serge uniform won't stick out quite so much.

But when Stella arrives in her smart little car she simply sweeps by the line and up to the maitre d'. Ray and Fraser have to scramble to keep up.

"Sal," Stella says, and the small, lean man leans forward to kiss both her cheeks.

"Stella bella, welcome back. You've kept away too long." Sal makes a moue.

Stella laughs. "Well, work, work, work, you know? But I've missed you terribly, Salvatore. Can you squeeze us in?"

"For you, always, dear lady."

Sal leads them away. Their table is thankfully in a somewhat quieter nook away from the bar. Stella takes the high, overstuffed leather booth and Ray slides in next to her, which leaves the corner chair for Fraser.

For the first few moments he's occupied trying to find a place to put his hat. Finally he decides to slip it next to his chair and tells himself firmly not to step on it later.

Stella is already talking to Ray about the case. She seems to be of the opinion they are going too easy on Davey by not charging the boy with trespassing and assault. Since he's already in the hospital with a somewhat questionable future, Fraser finds her attitude a little too unyielding.

Ray seems to, as well. "The point of the fact is the kid's suffered enough. And for what? For some girl he knew a week?"

"Well, he was in love, or so I understand, Ray. Love can make people do some pretty awful things."

"That's a real nice attitude you got there, Stel." Ray's voice is tight.

Her blue eyes turn cold. "Well, I'm a prosecutor, Ray. Cynicism is a perk of the job. Besides, I remember you saying you thought he was guilty to begin with."

"Yeah, well, I'm a _cop_ , Stel. Being soft isn't what you call a good survival strategy."

"Oh, I don't know, Ray." Stella's eyes glance over to Fraser, and she tilts her head. "Constable Starched and Pressed here seems to have held onto _his_ compassion okay."

"Yo. You're way outta line, Stella—"

Fraser is forced to interrupt stiffly. "I think someone like Mrs. Botrelle would agree Ray has lost none of his, either."

Stella's smile is sardonic. "Oh, great. Big gold star for cleaning up after yourself, Ray."

"Yeah, maybe not the best example there, Frase," Ray says tiredly.

Anger makes the heat rise under Fraser's collar. "On the contrary, I believe it's the perfect example. Anyone else would have left her to her fate. And the cost to you was very high—" Fraser cuts himself off as Stella's look turns sharp.

Ray seems to pick up on her disapproval, because he drops his head as if Fraser hasn't spoken at all.

The waiter approaches with the menus, interrupting the tableau and giving Fraser a chance to rise to his feet, his hat held firmly in his left hand.

"I believe I am a little tired, after all," Fraser says. "Ms. Kowalski, Ray, if you don't mind, I'll be leaving."

"Hey, Frase, you don't have to—look, we promise no more work talk, all right?"

But the atmosphere is stifling. Fraser tilts his head in apology to Ray. "I'm sorry, Ray. I'm afraid I'm not very good company right now. I'll see you tomorrow." Fraser gives Stella a curt nod and turns toward the door.

He has to wend his way between the crowded tables, the babble of a multitude of conversations washing over him like a tide swell.

He was a fool to come. Ray's passivity with Stella makes Fraser's chest ache; it always has, even when he and Ray were no more than friends. And now—

Now Fraser finds he has had enough.

///

He doesn't go home to the Consulate. He can't bear the thought of being there when Ray arrives—as he is bound to, slightly drunk and in a mood from seeing Stella. And if he comes, Fraser will not be able to refuse him, no more than Ray could resist should Stella crook her finger.

Worse, Fraser can't stand the thought Ray wouldn't come at all—that maybe he will be with her tonight.

Sometimes, when he and Fraser are working, Ray will do something, move in some way, so all the desire and tenderness Fraser has for him will be focused within the smallest detail—the curve of Ray's shoulder lifting where it meets his vulnerable neck; the glint of blond hairs on his muscled forearm; the dip of his lashes against his cheeks. And in that moment Fraser feels as if his heart will stop or simply burst completely. The sensation is one of pain, but the clean, sharp pain of living, of knowing something so perfect, of _feeling_ something so important, so much larger than his body can contain.

This, he knows, is why he stays, why he has never said no.

He would like to be able to, though. And he thinks perhaps now he can. Seeing Ray with Stella has given Fraser a mirror, and he doesn't like what he sees.

He decides to walk to the university library. There is a small chance Ray would try to find him there—when not at the Consulate Fraser tends to haunt either the library or Washington Park—but it's late, and Ray might not realize the library is open until ten.

Fraser makes his way there, and once inside goes to the fourth floor stacks. He locates the proper row and pushes the button. With a low, cycling hum, the stack opens, and Fraser locates his usual volume of _The Spirit of Solitude_. It's light in his hand as he carries it back to the reading area _._

 __He had his own copy once, but it burned with most of his belongings, and he's come to think of the library's collection as if it were his own. The books are safer here anyway, and this way he won't own anything it would hurt to lose, or that he would have to carry with him should he need to go.

That is a lie, of course. He already has too much to lose. And he cannot go. He can admit it here, where the hush is never defiled, where the silence is filled with hundreds of thousands of words, all whispering in the quiet, measured tones of his youth. Old friends, each one—this very volume is identical to the 1886 edition Fraser's grandparents had on hand.

 _In lone and silent hours,  
When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness,  
Like an inspired and desperate alchymist  
Staking his very life on some dark hope,  
Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks  
With my most innocent love, until strange tears  
Uniting with those breathless kisses, made  
Such magic as compels the charmed night  
To render up thy charge.  
_  
The poet speaks to the mystery of the universe and the natural world so tenderly, as if to a lover. Fraser feels that same unanswered, awe-filled ache whenever he is home in the wilds of the north. But never here, except when he is with Ray.

And Fraser can't help wanting more of it—the wonder of touching Ray, of making him tremble, beg, moan. The magic of knowing he can bring Ray pleasure. The way Ray's hands curve to hold Fraser's head still for kissing, gentle fingers caging him as surely as steel. The salt taste of Ray's neck, the strength of his arms—masculine, known and safe—holding Fraser as he climaxes.

This is the terrible, beautiful whole of being with Ray.

 _A lovely youth,—no mourning maiden decked  
With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath,  
The lone couch of his everlasting sleep:—  
Gentle, and brave, and generous,—no lorn bard  
Breathed o'er his dark fate one melodious sigh :  
He lived, he died, he sung, in solitude.  
Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes,  
And virgins, as unknown he past, have pined  
And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes._

 __Shelley might as well be describing Ray, with his wild eyes and his passion for living. Who seems to see his true nature but Fraser? Ray is the poet who would die unsung in solitude. Why can't Ray—why doesn't he _realize—  
_  
"Hey, Frase."

The quiet voice startles him, and Fraser bends his head lower over the book, afraid to look up in that moment. He calls himself a stupid, self-indulgent fool. A proven idiot. Anything to halt the sudden burning in his eyes.

"Fraser?"

Fraser lifts his head and motions to his lips. _Shhh._ He stands and leads the way out of the reading room and back to the stacks.

"I just knew I'd find you here." Ray nudges against him in the hallway. "C'mon, let's skedaddle."

"I'm not ready to go just yet," Fraser says, keeping his voice low. He finds the proper row and slips into the narrow space.

Ray hovers at the gap. "I don't get how you like this place. It's creepy."

Fraser brushes his hand along the spines of his old friends, Percy and Mary—just a few rows over he can find Keats and Longfellow.

Dead. They are all dead, and Ray is alive and warm.

But not his.

"Did you enjoy your dinner?" Fraser asks caustically.

Ray gives a sarcastic snort. "Oh, sure, it was aces."

"Then why on _earth_ do you always—" God. He was about to say it—say everything. Fraser clamps his mouth shut and shelves the book.

"You know why."

Fraser shakes his head. He can't discuss this—most certainly not here, of all places.

"Seriously, come out of there. These things make me nervous; I'm scared I'll accidentally lean on the button and crush you like Mountie sandwich."

Fraser walks away from Ray and toward the back of the stacks where the narrow corridor leads to the exit stairs. He can feel rather than hear Ray following him.

In the stairwell, Ray closes the distance, his steps an echoing clatter behind Fraser's. Fraser reminds himself he will say no to any and all advances. That no matter the tenderness of Ray's touch, his actions are the truth Fraser must go by. Ray doesn't want to be encumbered.

"I don't want her," Ray says, his voice urgent.

The statement is ridiculous. Fraser says nothing.

"But I need the reminder, you know? Of how bad it gets. Because maybe that way I won't—I can't—"

Fraser nearly trips, and has to grab the railing. His hat flutters to the landing and when he bends to pick it up, Ray is there, so close behind him. Fraser startles forward and down.

"Wait, just _wait_ , Fraser. Look, okay, what I'm saying here, and this is the tough thing—"

Fraser hauls open the door to the main floor with some relief. They are back in the library proper, where silence rules.

"Damn it!" Ray's expletive resonates, and a passing student shoots them a glare.

Fraser deflects it over his shoulder to Ray, who frowns horribly at him. Fraser hastens toward the door. If they are going to have this thing out, as apparently Ray is intent on doing, they won't be doing it in the lobby of his favorite library and possibly get him banned for life.

In the parking lot, the GTO stands sleek and black just past the glow of the exterior lights. Ray has gone strangely silent beside him, now that they have the opportunity to speak.

Very well. If the moment has passed, Fraser can only be grateful. He's not up to much argument tonight.

He really shouldn't read Shelley. It always puts him in a mood.

Fraser reaches the passenger-side door and waits, thinking Ray will go around and pop the lock for him. But instead Ray comes up behind him and stands a little too close for casual comfort.

"I'd appreciate a ride back to the Consulate," Fraser says.

There is no response, just the heat of Ray at his back.

"Ray—"

"Turn around, Fraser."

"On second thought, perhaps I'd prefer a walk. It will do me good." Fraser starts to move away, and with a rush Ray is on him and pushing him hard against the fender.

"Fuck it," Ray says, curling one arm around Fraser's waist and pressing a hot kiss against his jaw.

"Stop it," Fraser says tightly. He braces his hand on the trunk.

"Stop what?" Ray sounds almost languid, at odds with the heat rubbing against Fraser's hip.

Fraser twists his head away from Ray's attempted kiss.

"I can't do this anymore," Fraser says, knowing he sounds apologetic. "I won't do this," he says, more firmly. He risks a glance at Ray's face.

Ray's eyes are dark, shadowed. His mouth, his beautiful mouth, is damp, lips curling slightly to one side so his cheek is creased. Fraser has always wanted to kiss that crease, force it to deepen with the smiles Ray might give him. But now his grin is ironic.

"I get it. I'm a loser, right? Because of tonight? You think I'm a pussy, don't you?"

Fraser lifts one hand rubs a knuckle against his eyebrow. "I don't know what you mean—"

"About Stella. You think because I let her talk shit—you think I don't know how it looks?"

"I think," Fraser says very carefully, "you are a man who, once he falls in love, is very devoted. To the extreme." It hurts to say it out loud. The difference is painful, undeniable. But he forces himself to say, "And I admire that."

Ray laughs, a hoarse sound, and Fraser's side feels cool as Ray steps away.

"Devoted, huh? Or just stupid? Because I have to tell you, Fraser, at the end it wasn't like love. More like chemotherapy. And I'm finally over this round, you know? Just because I still want to be her friend doesn't mean I'm not over it, and just because I sometimes act like I'm not doesn't mean what you think."

"Then what _does_ it mean?" Fraser spits out.

"It means...it means crap." Ray spins away, his boots scraping the asphalt. "Jesus, everything has to be black and white with you, perfectly one way or the other. Can't you just fucking _trust_ me, Fraser?"

"Trust you." Not this again. "Of course, I—"

"Do not say that." Ray points two fingers at him. "If you goddamned did, we wouldn't be having this conversation, we'd be back at the Consulate already and fucking like bunnies."

The man is utterly infuriating. "That's your idea of trust, is it?"

"It's one idea, yeah. It's one you haven't gotten, considering I haven't even seen you completely naked yet. What's that about, huh?" Ray stalks back over, and his agitation shows all the way up to his hair, which appears to be shivering on his head. "You strip down just about enough to fuck me. That's it."

Ray's hard finger pokes Fraser in the chest, and he bats it away. "Pot and kettle, Ray—you were the one who set the terms. I merely abide by them."

"Set the terms. Set the _terms_ —?"

"And, anyway, there was barely time to get undressed, considering you always _leave_ directly afterward—"

"You never _told_ me to stay. You never _wanted_ me to."

"What? You can't seriously be—" Fraser is suddenly furious. He has to grit his teeth against a desire to punch Ray right in the face. A calming breath settles him, and he straightens his tunic.

"Yeah, there you go again. You get it all wrapped up nice and neat."

Fraser shakes his head. "What?"

"Everything, Fraser. Everything there is." Ray rubs his palm over his mouth before dropping his hand. "Never mind. Forget it. Forget I said anything."

He sounds defeated, miserable. And he looks tired. His eyes...Fraser can't decipher the emotion in them. All he knows is it hurts like a bleeding wound to see Ray like this, so insecure, desperate, self-deprecating. The way he always looks when he's with Stella—

When he's with _Stella._

 __Oh, God.No. This cannot be as it appears. Because if it is, then nothing _else_ is. Nothing ever _has_ been. Fraser feels suddenly weak.

"Ray—" He reaches out, but Ray dances back, two light hops—a boxer's steps.

Fraser tries again using only his voice. "Ray, please, listen to me."

Ray cocks his head, then stills. The moon has risen and casts a pale glow over his face.

"You always came to me," Fraser says carefully, "and then you always left. I thought it meant—I assumed the reason was—" He shrugs, feeling helpless to articulate his longing, the passivity that soaked his will, the fear that stopped his hands.

"I wasn't going to be the one to watch you go," Ray says, his voice naked with hurt. "I figured this way I could keep it from making me crazy when you did. And you never once asked to me to stick around, so I—I thought I was right."

Somehow, he has crept closer, and Fraser can see his eyes more clearly. They are collecting all the meager light.

"I would've asked if I knew I could. I didn't know. This—" Fraser gestures between them, "You have to understand, Ray, I'm not accustomed to asking—"

But no, the problem is deeper than that.

"Or giving," Ray says. "That it?"

Fraser nods, and then shakes his head, frustrated. The words spill out. "I thought you _knew_ —it was clear to me you realized I was yours for the taking. Yours to be with."

Ray's eyes widen, and he scuffs forward two steps until they are chest to chest. The zipper of his jacket brushes against Fraser's tunic.

There's a mechanical creak and Fraser sees the library doors opening to let out a couple of students. They begin chattering immediately, their voices a flat echo in the night air. Ray jumps back and shares a look with Fraser.

Without a word, they both turn toward the GTO. Ray skims around the trunk to the driver's side and slides in. He pops the lock, and Fraser climbs inside.

They ride in silence for a short while. Fraser feels oddly disconnected, his mind racing over their improbable conversation.

"C'mere," Ray says roughly. Fraser pushes against the door and shifts over, breaking the invisible boundary on the seat between them. Ray moves so his forearm rests upon Fraser's thigh.

Fraser tilts his head back and focuses on the warmth, the incredible warmth of Ray beside him. The possibilities are dizzying. He can hardly believe this is happening, that he misunderstood Ray's actions so completely, that the Ray he saw in the parking lot is real. An open, vulnerable, _needful_ Ray.

Perhaps needing _him_.

The car brakes gently, and Ray's voice rouses him. "We're here." Fraser moves automatically to the door, pausing to wipe his suddenly damp palms on his thighs.

There's a decent space between them as they walk together to the door, where Ray ushers him through. Fraser is conscious of Ray behind him as he climbs the stairs. Just as he reaches the top step, he feels Ray's hands slide up his hips before dropping away.

There is a sudden, aching pressure in Fraser's groin. His hand goes down to cover his erection, and Ray gives a breathless laugh beside him. They both hurry down the hallway to Ray's door.

Ray strips his jacket and tosses it on the couch, then takes Fraser's arm and tugs him toward the darkened bedroom. At the doorway, Fraser turns and deliberately flicks on the overhead light, and then goes to Ray's nightstand and turns on that lamp, too, for good measure.

He will see everything this time.

Ray seems to approve; his eyes are gleaming as he steps forward. Fraser expects a kiss, but instead Ray's hands alight on first one, then the other of Fraser's shoulder straps to unfasten the buttons there. He lifts the lanyard over Fraser's head.

Every motion seems deliberate, almost ritualistic, as he strips the accoutrements from Fraser's uniform. Fraser is puzzled but allows it, standing passively as Ray takes his tunic, but when Ray kneels to unlace his boots and pants, Fraser is suddenly afraid.

Ray is smarter than he is. He knew what this meant even when Fraser did not, because now the boots are gone, his trousers are falling, and Fraser begins to tremble.

Ray stands, and his hands are warm on Fraser's waist as he looks directly into Fraser's eyes. He appears to be waiting.

Fraser takes a step back and pulls his shirt off over his head.

Ray smiles. Together, fingers colliding, they push down on the band of Fraser's boxers, which slide to his feet.

He's naked. He feels heat on his chest—it's from Ray's eyes on him, forcing his nipples to tighten.

"Jesus, Fraser," Ray whispers, breaking the silence, and he puts his hands on Fraser's chest, fingertips brushing lightly and catching against the sensitive bits of skin. Fraser freezes with a gasp.

Ray's eyes crinkle and he lunges forward for a kiss. His lips are clinging silk, his tongue a warm, twisting probe that sends shivers down Fraser's arms. Ray pushes him back toward the bed, and Fraser goes willingly, falling onto the sheets. They smell like Ray.

Fraser props himself on his elbows to watch as Ray strips hastily. When Ray straightens, Fraser can finally see the whole of him—gilded skin over hard, lean muscles, and the proud erection jutting from his groin, clear fluid already gathered in the tip.

"Ray," Fraser says hoarsely, reaching out, and Ray comes to him, crawls over him and pushes him down. Their legs bump and then tangle together, and at long last Fraser feels the nude, hard length of him, skin hot against skin. It makes him dizzy with sudden need, and he can't stop a quiet moan of longing for more.

When Ray's hands squeeze beneath him to capture his ass, the moan turns into a desperate groan.

Ray is muttering against his neck, "...kid's games, Fraser. We're done with that. From now on we're getting serious."

His fingers slip between Fraser's cheeks to touch him intimately, and Fraser fumbles a startled, hungry agreement. Yes, to this, at last—to anything, now. "Please, yes," he says again, and Ray grins with savage satisfaction and rolls away to paw through his bedside drawer.

Fraser starts to turn to over, but Ray stops him with a warm hand. "Like this," Ray says. "I want you like this."

The next few minutes are a jumble of frenzied preparations, of Ray pushing his legs up, forcing a pillow under the small of his back, and of the press of Ray's slick fingers moving inside him, a strange feeling, novel and carnal and purely erotic. He feels terribly open like his, his hips in the air and his secrets revealed. He cannot hide what Ray is doing to him—can't stop shuddering and twitching with each deep slide of Ray's long fingers.

At last Ray seems satisfied he is ready, and kneels in close. Still, he is far away, too far, and Fraser's fingers itch to draw him closer. Fraser feels like a trussed bird set on a platter as his legs are lifted over Ray's arms.

But then Ray leans over him, bracing just above, and his hot, hard penis nudges inside of him, and this _is_ close. And near perfection, this stretching ache of being filled by Ray, the pulsing of heat between them, and the lewd groan Ray makes as he pushes deeper.

"God. _Ray_ ," Fraser gasps.

"You're good, you're okay." Ray's whispered encouragement eases him somewhat, and Fraser relaxes his thighs on Ray's arms, trusting him to support them as he spreads himself wide open to the penetration. Deeper, like this. Close enough that Fraser can feel the tremors of Ray's belly rippling against his erection caught between them. Then Ray pulls back and thrusts, once, again, then with increasing speed, rocking them both in a smooth rhythm.

"Dear God," Fraser moans. Ray is moving inside, moving inside, his arms bunching under Fraser's knees, and Fraser can see everything—the dew of sweat beading Ray's frown of concentration, the glorious flex of his chest, the arch of his long throat.

Suddenly Ray pushes up, lifting Fraser's hips with the force of his thrust. A flash of intense pleasure spreads from within, and Fraser hears himself make an appalling whimper.

"That's it," Ray gasps. He grimaces a smile and does it again and again, grunting with effort, thrusting inside Fraser, _fucking_ him, and Fraser drops his head back and groans wildly. He is helpless in this position, unable even to touch himself to bring relief, but he doesn't care, because Ray will take care of him—is already doing so with the strength of his body and the heavy slide of his cock.

"Let it go, Fraser," Ray pleads, and Fraser surrenders, feeling it begin frighteningly deep, the clench and release of his climax wringing moans from them both as he spills wetly between them. Ray pauses, pressing hard, and Fraser pulses again and again, tensing in pleasure.

When he opens his eyes he sees Ray staring down at him, his mouth open, and then he begins once again the inexorable movement of his hips.

Now Fraser murmurs encouragement, "Perfect. God, you are perfect." He raises his limp arms and puts his hands on Ray's chest, feeling the tight cords of muscle shifting. Fraser rubs his thumbs over Ray's nipples, and Ray throws his head back. With an oddly quiet grunt he swells inside of Fraser's body and moans as he reaches completion. His face is so beautiful in that moment, his dark gold lashes fluttering against his flushed cheeks, that Fraser's heart stutters dangerously within his chest.

"God. God. Fraser." Still panting, Ray eases out and settles face down beside him. Fraser's leg is trapped, and he hitches it away, but remains close. He can't lose this now—can never lose this. He rests his hand on Ray's sweat-slicked back, and Ray throws an arm over him.

Fraser feels suddenly like laughing, or perhaps crying. He turns and tucks his face against Ray's shoulder, smelling the sweet musk of him. Pressing his lips against the round muscle, he murmurs, "'I have watched thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps, and my heart ever gazes on the depth of thy deep mysteries.'"

Ray makes a snuffling sound. Irked, Fraser lifts his head and stares into Ray softly amused eyes.

Fraser makes a frown and says, "'...and, though ne'er yet thou hast unveil'd thy inmost sanctuary; Enough from incommunicable dream, and twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought, has shone within me, that serenely now and moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre suspended in the solitary dome of some mysterious and deserted fane, I wait thy breath.'"

Ray's forehead crinkles. "So, what you're saying is you still don't get it—get _me_ —is that it?" He nudges Fraser with his fist.

"I'm saying I'm—I want to try. For a long, long time. For as long as it takes."

"Huh." Ray's smile is open now. He turns onto his side and his hand drops to Fraser's waist and pulls him closer. Then Ray kisses him, and Fraser's eyes close with pleasure.

"I'm a lot easier than poetry, Fraser," Ray says when he releases Fraser's mouth at last.

Fraser smiles. "Hardly."

"You, on the other hand—do the words 'black box' mean anything?"

"Maybe we can argue the point later," Fraser says irritably.

"Hmm." The crease in Ray's cheek deepens in a slow smile. His shoulder moves, and suddenly his sly fingers are slipping down between Fraser's legs.

Fraser gasps and his knee falls to one side.

"Later," Ray repeats, and his fingers tease the sensitive ring of Fraser's anus before sliding presumptuously back inside. "I like the sound of that."

Fraser makes a shamefully inarticulate noise.

"Or, maybe sooner," Ray says, his voice light. "You never can know about this stuff."

"Yes, I-I mean—either, fine," Fraser whispers shakily.

But he thinks perhaps sooner would be better.

....................  
2008.02.18

  


**Author's Note:**

> All quotes are from Percy Shelley's _Alastor; or_ _The Spirit of Solitude_ (1816).


End file.
